


Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom!!

by tellywhich (chaoticgoodenough)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coffee Shops, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Honestly this barely involves a coffee shop but close enough right, Inspired by Music, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Switch John, Switch Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 01:51:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15985067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticgoodenough/pseuds/tellywhich
Summary: The Hounds of Baskerville case is over, but for some reason, Sherlock isn't downshifting into post-case mode. Meanwhile, John's just trying to figure out what the hell is wrong so that he isn't stuck at home with a harpoon-wielding maniac.Featuring a brief foray into a coffee shop, but mostly just sexy times.





	Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom!!

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a half-assed accounting of events that might have occurred between The Hounds of Baskerville case and The Reichenbach Fall. It is, however, a full-assed accounting of John and Sherlock's first time together, which is especially sad given the following canon episode (sorry 'bout that!).
> 
> ~*~*~*~
> 
> Inspired in part by a random video I saw on Buzzfeed. This person was driving down a High Street blasting "Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom!!" by the Vengaboys. Everyone on the street started dancing to it, and it was caught on film.

John winced against the blast of wind that careened down Baker Street, bringing a crisp chill that usually belonged to autumn, not late summer. He rubbed his hands together before shoving them into his coat pockets. Next to him, Sherlock shrugged further into his coat and popped his collar, smirking as John rolled his eyes. They veered closer as they walked, their arms brushing together.

“I’m going for a coffee,” John said, as they approached the front door at 221 Baker Street. “See you in a bit?”

“I’ll come with you,” Sherlock said, half-turning as another gust pushed past them.

John paused, trying to figure out the best way to convince Sherlock that he didn’t need any more outside stimulation. Only a few days ago, they had travelled to Dartmoor to solve the Baskerville case, and yet he still seemed as wound up as he had been before the case. 

It was bad enough when John’s morning had started with a blood-soaked Sherlock, fresh off the Tube, striding into the flat with an actual harpoon in hand. This had been a few hours before their Baskerville client had shown up unexpectedly. Typically, after solving a case, Sherlock caught up on sleep, stuffed himself with takeaway and beans on toast, and read about bees. John had come to depend on these post-case lulls, for their rare gift of peace and quiet.

But this time, after Dartmoor, the downtime never came. Sherlock kept going like he usually did, only there was an even more restless edge to his behaviour. There had been the incident with the hard-boiled eyes. The furniture in the sitting room had been rearranged at three o'clock in the morning, and returned to its original position at 4 am the following morning. Sherlock had gone specifically to a crime scene he hadn’t even been invited to just to antagonize Anderson. The last straw was when he was caught experimenting on a diseased lung that had been reserved for a class at Barts. It had been explicitly labelled to prevent such a misunderstanding. At that point, even Molly had been forced to ask John if there was anything he could do, anything at all, to keep Sherlock distracted for awhile.

“You want to go alone,” Sherlock said.

Something in his voice made John look up at his face. He realized how he must look, standing in the middle of the pavement, hands on his hips, a full frown on his face. Sherlock looked a bit forlorn. He must still feel guilty about spiking John’s tea with hallucinogenics during the case. Ever since the row they’d had about that, Sherlock had been unusually attentive. He had even gone to the shops without prompting when the groceries ran low. Even if he did bring back the wrong type of milk, and forgot to buy more beans. And bacon. Well, that was still more than John would have expected in the past. 

“No.” John made sure to give Sherlock a reassuring smile. “Come with me.”

If Sherlock was trying, John could try a little harder, too. Perhaps there was something he could do to get Sherlock to calm down. Take a break. Certainly coffee wouldn’t help, but he’d think twice about it before suggesting it next time.

They turned toward Speedy’s Cafe, but at the sight of Mr. Chatterjee glaring at them through the front window, John hesitated. After all, it was Sherlock who had revealed his secret wife in Doncaster. This was something Mr. Chatterjee had neglected to mention to Mrs. Hudson when they started dating, so there had been quite an uproar.

“Perhaps it’s too soon,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” John nodded. “It’s only been about a week, really.”

“Starbucks, then?”

“Or Costa.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s your choice.”

In the end, they did go to Starbucks, as there was a slightly smaller amount of people crammed into the shop. They were greeted by a blast of dry, overheated air, too many bodies in a small space. Music wove through the crowd of people, barely audible over the murmur of voices and the hissing steam of the espresso machine.

The kid at the counter turned to shout into the back. “Hey, mate, turn it up!”

“Oh God,” Sherlock said as a pop song burst to prominence within the wall of sound around them. “I feel like we’re in a club.”

_If you’re alone and you need a friend_  
_Someone to make you forget your problems_  
_Just come along baby take my hand_  
_I’ll be your lover tonight_

The people ahead of them in the queue whooped with joy, dancing in line, the baristas laughing and wiggling their shoulders along with the beat as they worked. If the atmosphere in the cafe had felt tense before, now there was a wild-edged giddiness to it. A chaotic sense of possibility.

_Whoa oh whoa oh_  
_This is what I wanna do_  
_Whoa oh whoa oh_  
_Let’s have some fun_

“I forgot about this song,” John said, memories transporting him back to the dark, sweaty clubs of his med school days. He remembered the feel of bodies pressing against him. Sometimes women, sometimes men, sometimes both. Sometimes at the same time. The feel of rounded hips under his hands. The scrape of stubble on his neck. Hands on his arse. He remembered legs tangling around toilets with frantic grace. Trying to get off before someone started banging down the door.

Sherlock scowled. “I must have deleted it.”

_Boom boom boom boom_  
_I want you in my room_  
_Let’s spend the night together_  
_From now until forever_

More people spilled into the shop, and Sherlock pressed against John’s back. John felt the wildness of the song glide up his spine, the beat impossible to resist. He turned to face Sherlock. They were standing so close. If they had met in a club, the thing to do would have been so obvious. So easy.

_Boom boom boom boom_  
_I wanna go boom boom_  
_Let’s spend the night together_  
_Together in my room_

Sherlock was staring down at him, an unfamiliar look in his eyes. The intensity was unnerving, icy and unrelenting. Heat flushed to the surface of John’s skin, running down his arms, pouring into his belly, dripping lower. 

One of his lovers from med school had been somewhat like Sherlock. In appearance at least. Tall, with an imperious, public school bearing. John tried not to think too much about him. After all, that always led to wondering what it would be like to be intimate with Sherlock. It felt a little strange considering they were flatmates. And, well, Sherlock wasn’t interested.

He forced his mind onto less titillating topics. Aspirin-Exacerbated Respiratory Disease. The bloody chip and pin machine at Tesco. Laundry. He was almost out of clean pants. Oh God, don’t think about pants...

The song was winding down, but the atmosphere was still charged with excitement, the people around them animated in a way they hadn’t been before.

“Do we have to stay?” Sherlock asked, stepping closer, even though John knew it was impossible. It was impossible to stand even closer than they were standing without...well, something had to give.

“What do you mean?” John just managed to stutter out the words.

“I have something better in mind than coffee. I cannot tolerate this much longer.”

“Oh, right,” John said, cold flushing away the heat on his skin. “Of course. This crowd.” He motioned with one hand half-heartedly, trying not to look as disappointed as he felt.

“No.” Sherlock tilted his head forward, a small, barely noticeable movement. “You misunderstood me.”

“Did I?” John asked.

“Yes. Let’s go.” Sherlock gripped his wrist and dragged him out of Starbucks.

 

John winced as Sherlock slammed the front door behind him, wondering what had gotten into him. Perhaps a bad memory associated with that song? It had been turned up rather loud. He started up the stairs, staggering as Sherlock gripped his shoulder and pressed him back against the wall, caging him in with his forearms.

“Who needs coffee, John?” he asked, his voice a low growl. “Who needs anything? _This_ is all we need.”

John tried his best to stay calm, though his heart was hammering away in response to Sherlock’s proximity. He wouldn’t have to lean forward that far to get what he’d always wanted… He cleared his throat. 

“I’m still sort of lost as to what you’re getting at, Sherlock.”

Really, John thought he knew, but one had to be sure. After all, he had seen Sherlock play off people’s emotions before. Perhaps there was some ulterior motive that had nothing to do with what John hoped Sherlock was suggesting.

“Oh, _God_!” Sherlock roared, spinning away, his coat whirling around him. John had a flashback to the morning with the harpoon. Henry Knight had arrived with the Baskerville case, which only seemed to spur Sherlock on in his bad behaviour. Just prior to Henry’s arrival, Sherlock had been stalking around the sitting room in his dressing gown, wielding that damn harpoon with a peculiar sort of desperation that John had originally attributed to his nicotine withdrawal.

“All right,” John said. “Calm down. I just need to know what’s bringing this on.”

“I can’t do this,” Sherlock muttered, pacing in a tight circle around the foyer. “He’s an idiot. It’s impossible. It’s a waste of my time. Argh!” He pinned John with a harried look, then stormed up the stairs. A moment later, John heard his bedroom door slam shut.

John hovered at the foot of the stairs, annoyed. He took several deep breaths. Now he definitely needed a coffee. If he was going to be alone, anyway, he might as well go out while he had the chance. He thought of going upstairs to grab the latest crime novel he’d been reading, then decided against it.

 

When John got back to the flat, he found Sherlock in his chair in his dressing gown, a contrite look on his face.

“Pretend we’re in a club, John.” 

John crossed his arms and waited. As usual, there was no preamble to introduce the topic. Who even knew what was going on in Sherlock’s mad, brilliant mind at any given moment. Either John would figure it out eventually based on what Sherlock was saying, or Sherlock would move on to a different topic.

Instead, Sherlock sprang to his feet and skipped over to the desk, tapping the space bar on John’s laptop. He had cued up that _Vengaboys_ song again, and turned the volume all the way up.

_Boom boom boom boom_  
_I want you in my room_  
_Let’s spend the night together_  
_From now until forever_

Sherlock started moving to the music, his hips twisting sinuously. John sucked in a surprised breath. He had never seen anything quite like it. Sherlock was a good dancer. A _really_ good dancer. He uncrossed his arms. Whatever was going to happen next, he had a feeling he would need both hands free.

Sherlock danced up to him, his eyes intense, and then his hands were sliding around John’s waist, drawing him closer. He leaned forward, his mouth brushing against John’s ear.

“Hello, handsome.”

Despite typically being adept at this sort of thing, John found himself at a loss, his blood pounding so loudly in his ears that he could barely make out the music, let along string a coherent thought together.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” So much for his reputation. He felt as awkward as a teenage boy at his first dance.

Sherlock pulled him closer, their bodies swaying together along with the music.

“Don’t tell me this is too much,” he purred against John’s neck. “It seemed as if more obvious hints were in order.”

 _This is it,_ John thought. _Hello. Wake up. This is exactly what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? But it’s so bloody frightening. What if something goes wrong? Also, it’s pretty surreal, if I’m being honest._

“Please don’t,” Sherlock said, his voice resuming its normal pitch as he took a step back, a flush rising to his cheeks. “I don’t think I could bear it if I’m...mistaken. So please don’t tell me this is too much.”

John took a steadying breath as the song ended, the lyrics running over and over in his mind.

_Boom boom boom boom_  
_I want you in my room_  
_Let’s spend the night together_  
_From now until forever_

In the silence, John lifted his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders. “Come closer.”

He could feel the breath Sherlock drew in and held. He slid his hands under Sherlock’s dressing gown, the silk brushing against his fingers as he eased it off Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“It’s hot in here, isn’t it? In the _club_ , that is.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked, and he reached down to fumble at the hem of John’s jumper, his movements betraying his eagerness. John wiggled as Sherlock peeled it off over his shoulders and head. Once he was free, he gathered Sherlock back into his arms.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, pressing up against Sherlock’s chest. He let his nose trace a line along the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, his mouth ghosting over his neck.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper.

“And this?” John asked, as he reached up to twine his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, until their mouths were centimetres apart. Millimetres, even. He could feel the slight tremor that ran through Sherlock’s body at that, feel Sherlock’s breath puff against his lips.

“Please.”

That was all John needed to hear. He launched into an exploratory kiss, the plush softness of Sherlock’s mouth making his knees go weak. He parted his lips and tilted his head, his tongue dipping into Sherlock’s mouth. He could hear their breath sighing through their mouths as their noses pressed in against each other’s cheeks. John groaned as Sherlock bit his lower lip, then offered several lingering, open-mouthed kisses. Even with Sherlock’s fancy razors and meticulous shaving habits, John could still feel the sharp edges of his stubble. He abandoned Sherlock’s mouth, wanting more, his lips rubbing against Sherlock’s jaw then moving down. He grinned as Sherlock murmured under his breath.

“Iwantyouinmyroom.”

John tilted his head back. “In that case, we should – um - so I was tested after Sarah and was all clear. I haven’t slept with anyone since.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. 

John gave him an expectant look.

“Oh, right. I’m fine. I got tested after the last time. I always do. I’m all clear. I’m very careful.”

John felt a twinge of worry at Sherlock’s vagueness. He knew about the drug history, of course, but all of that was in the past, wasn’t it? Only it didn’t quite sound like he was talking about STI testing. 

“John?”

John blinked. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sherlock to be honest about his health. He was more worried about the “last time” Sherlock had mentioned. How recent had it been? And would he even notice if Sherlock was using again? 

“John, I’m fine,” Sherlock said, giving him an odd look.

“Good,” John managed, filing away those thoughts for later consideration. He shook off the sense of trepidation, letting his arousal take over again, warming him. “That’s good,” he repeated, taking Sherlock’s hand. “Come on, then.”

 

They burst through Sherlock’s bedroom door and collapsed down against the bed, nearly slamming the headboard through the wall in their haste, their legs tangling together.

“God, Sherlock...” John turned to face him, shuddering as Sherlock licked up and over John’s pulse point.

“I want you, John,” he said, biting John’s shoulder savagely.

John pushed Sherlock back against the bed, his body on fire, and rolled on top of him, frustrated by how the sensations were dulled by fabric. He pushed Sherlock’s thighs apart.

“God, _yes_ ,” Sherlock burst out.

John paused, surprised. 

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “What? I _am_ capable of becoming excited about things other than murder and mayhem, John.”

“All right,” John giggled, kneeling between Sherlock’s legs. “I just didn’t expect that. I’m not even sure I believe this is actually happening.”

“Believe it.” Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers, then moved on to unzip John’s fly, his long fingers sliding under the waistband of John’s jeans and up over the curves of his arse as he pushed the fabric down around John’s thighs.

“Jesus.” John collapsed down against Sherlock’s chest as he squirmed the rest of the way out of his jeans, helping Sherlock rid himself of his trousers at the same time.

“This next,” Sherlock said, plucking at John’s vest.

John chuckled and tore it off, then got to work on Sherlock’s shirt buttons.

“Good,” Sherlock breathed, tilting his head back and arching as John pushed the shirt open. John draped himself over Sherlock, body tingling with the uninterrupted experience of skin against skin, his mouth finding Sherlock’s neck, hands digging into his curls. Sherlock’s chest was smooth, virtually hairless, his stomach lined with muscle, a dark trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of his pants. 

John had seen this all before, of course. They were flatmates, after all. But this was different. Now that he could actually _touch_ Sherlock, he got to work immediately, tracing pathways along his body with his mouth, tongue teasing curves of muscle, lips kissing soft mounds and angular edges, palms sliding against pale skin. He scooted down further, pressing his face against the silk fabric of Sherlock’s pants, mouth and nose tracing the edges of Sherlock’s cock, one hand moving down to brush his knuckles gently against Sherlock’s balls.

Sherlock moaned and ran his fingers through John’s hair. “You’re killing me, John. I need them to come off. Take them off.”

John kissed his way back up Sherlock’s cock, sucking the tip lightly through the fabric, enjoying the strangled gasp he got as a result. He pushed back onto his heels to look at Sherlock, completely debauched, his eyes heavy-lidded, a red flush running from his chest up to his face.

“Anything you want to add to that request?” he prompted.

“Now,” Sherlock said.

John shook his head, rolling his eyes.

“Fine,” Sherlock scowled. “Please.”

John grinned, fingers stroking one well-muscled thigh, thumb dipping into the groove along Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock tilted his hips, chasing John’s hand with his cock, pouting as John snatched his hand away.

“Tease,” Sherlock said. He wiggled frantically as John plucked at the elastic waistband of Sherlock’s pants, working them down to his thighs. He nearly kneed John in the eye trying to untangle his legs.

“Slow down!” John said, laughing. “We have the whole night ahead of us.”

Sherlock glared at him and finally managed to toss his pants aside with his foot. Before he could do anything else, John pinned his legs back to the bed, settling between his thighs, lavishing him with wet kisses. Sherlock’s bitter saltiness spread across his tongue, cock heavy in his mouth as he licked down Sherlock’s length, wrapping his fingers around the base and taking him in. He worked Sherlock thoroughly, lips sliding down to meet his fingers, hollowing his cheeks as he dragged back up, his other hand stroking Sherlock’s balls as they tightened up against his body.

“Too good, John,” Sherlock gasped, pushing against John’s shoulders, his eyes glazed over. “I need to see you first. Before I finish. I need to see everything.”

John flushed, feeling particularly flattered. He stood back from the bed and slid out of his red pants. 

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes widening. 

“John. I was not prepared.”

“What?” John asked, panicking. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I thought-”

“Not what I meant,” Sherlock murmured. He slid off the bed and tore off his shirt, throwing it past John before he pulled him in for a blistering kiss. “I had already come to certain conclusions about your cock-”

“You _what_?” John stared up at him, shocked.

Sherlock grinned at him. “-however, I realize now that I was being quite conservative in my estimate.”

John tried to sort out his feelings about all of that, but a moment later, he didn’t care, as Sherlock was pulling him back down to the bed, his long, lithe body rolling on top of him. For an instant, their cocks slotted together, and John’s nerves lit up, body ringing with pleasure. And then Sherlock’s lips were on his stomach, teeth nipping at his hipbone, his cheek sliding against the ultra-sensitive head of John’s cock. John arched up, his vision going blurry as Sherlock ran his tongue in a firm stripe up his length.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he gasped, his head spinning as one of his ultimate fantasies began to come to life around him.

“I want you in my mouth,” Sherlock said, rubbing his nose into John’s pubic hair, breath hot on his cock. “I want you in my arse. I want you everywhere, John. I can’t decide what to do first. Perhaps I’ll start here-” Sherlock tilted his head forward, fingers wrapping around his cock, and then, there was only wet heat. Suction. Tongue pressing up, swirling around his glans.

John groaned loudly. Embarrassingly loud. He couldn’t help himself. He leaned up to get a glimpse of those lips. That mouth. Around him. His body ached with pleasure, waves building up around him, until there was nothing left that existed in the world but Sherlock and him, Sherlock’s body and his body, Sherlock’s mouth and his cock.

“Sherlock, I won’t be able to control myself if you go for much longer,” he said, the words hissing out between his clenched teeth. The waves of pleasure towered around him, swaying unsteadily. Sherlock pulled off his cock, somewhat reluctantly, then crawled up to his side, his head nestling against John’s shoulder, curls tickling John’s nose.

“That good?” Sherlock asked.

“What do you think?” John laughed, his cock twitching at the memory of it. He slid a hand around to Sherlock’s lower back, fingers hesitating at the top of Sherlock’s crack. It had been a long time since he’d done this sort of thing. He wanted to. Definitely. But perhaps it would be better to take it slow. He moved his palm over to a pert arse cheek and squeezed.

Sherlock groaned. “Have mercy on me, John.”

“Sorry, Sherlock. It’s been awhile for me. And I want to savour all of these first moments with you.”

Sherlock rolled back to look at him, blinking rapidly.

“Was that too much?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock said. “It’s quite romantic.”

“Oh.” John hesitated, unsure. “Well, if that’s not you’re thing, I’m sure we could find a compromise...”

“I wasn’t expecting you to feel like this,” Sherlock said.

“Right, well, I had no idea you were even interested. So I tried to keep it to myself.”

“I was always interested,” Sherlock said. “But The Work-”

“Your work is the most important thing,” John interrupted. “I know.”

“It _was_ ,” Sherlock corrected. “Or, more accurately, you’ve become a part of my work. So _you_ have become the most important thing.”

John bit the inside of his cheek, trying to maintain his composure. He reached up, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, tasting his mouth slowly. Sherlock draped his thigh over John’s hip, pressing against him, and John reached down between them. He rubbed the heel of his palm roughly down Sherlock’s cock, earning a satisfying gasp of surprise as Sherlock returned to full hardness. He gave himself a few savage strokes, his waning erection returning with aching speed. The saliva on their cocks had mostly dried, and he paused, considering.

“Top drawer on the left side,” Sherlock said.

John chuckled. “Brilliant, as always.”

He found the bottle of lube and slicked his hand thoroughly, scooting up against Sherlock again. He bit his lower lip at the initial sensation of cold wetness, gasping as his cock lined up against Sherlock’s hardness. Sherlock buried his face against John’s shoulder as John started to work them both, his fingers sliding deliciously from root to tip and back again.

“John,” Sherlock chanted. “John, John, John.” Sherlock was clutching at him now, his breath hot as he panted against John’s neck, hips rocking in an increasingly steady rhythm. He dug his fingers into John’s scalp, and John shivered at the painful pleasure of it. Sherlock guided their mouths together, lips crushing together. Arousal pulsed through John’s body like an amplified heartbeat. Sherlock’s hands moved down to John’s shoulders, and then he started fucking John’s fist, catching him completely by surprise. 

He readjusted his grip and kissed Sherlock desperately, shuddering as all of his senses shorted out with pleasure, a white-hot wave that began in his cock and radiated out to the edges of his body, intensifying with the startling return of sensation. Sherlock’s cock, hard and hot against his own. His fist pumping, seemingly of its own volition, as his come spilled over his fingers and onto the duvet. He realized he was saying Sherlock’s name, possibly yelling, his mouth sliding wetly across Sherlock’s lips, his cheek, his jaw. He bit into Sherlock’s neck as Sherlock cried out, his body stiffening, fingernails digging into John’s skin.

John let his own overstimulated cock slip out of his hand as he worked Sherlock through the aftershocks. With a deep groan, Sherlock thrust one more time into John’s fist, then flopped onto his back, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. John clumsily pushed the sweat-matted curls back from Sherlock’s forehead with his clean hand, which had fallen asleep after being trapped underneath him. He collapsed stomach-down on the bed, his come-streaked hand hovering uncertainly until Sherlock guided it down to rest on his stomach.

“That was fucking fantastic,” John said, voice muffled by the duvet. “You’re gorgeous. Brilliant. Amazing.”

“You,” Sherlock said, turning his head slightly to meet John’s eyes, his face glowing with beatific tranquillity.

After a moment, it became clear that was all Sherlock had intended to say.

“We probably just ruined your duvet,” John added.

Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own, squeezing his fingers gently, oblivious to the mess.

“Better than coffee,” John said.

Sherlock snorted. “Better than _Starbucks_ , at least. But if it were coffee from Caravan, might be a different story.”

John lifted his head to glare at him. Sherlock smirked.


End file.
